♥ Site recommended story ♥

A work of total fiction by Rod Cayenne. Strictly Over-18s only!

I’ve always had a funny relationship with my brother Patrick. He always called me “kid” which was guaranteed to piss me off big time. That and the fact that he was a good ten years older than me.

A few years back he purchased his first house. In a less than desirable suburb of the city, he really thought he had arrived. It was a Victorian terrace, with a big railway viaduct down the bottom of the garden. Being a bit of a gricer, I took pleasure in telling him that it was the line the nuclear waste trains ran along. That freaked him out briefly! His green credentials were seriously dented. Yes, we were siblings with the traditional rivalry. Even so, I was happy to help him move in and decorate as I was waiting to start a new term at University. I stayed for a few days.

Towards the end of my stay, I was enjoying a fine brew of tea and a crafty cigarette as my elevensies break. My brother had taken the train into town to sort out some things. I was a bit bored and tired as I gazed idly out of the kitchen window. I picked up the previous day’s evening paper and scanned through it as I puffed on my fag. Suddenly, I spat tea out of my gob with disbelief as I started to read an article about corporal punishment and the cane in particular. It was a hot piece alright, on a subject I’d always had an unhealthy interest in. In fact, it was so hot that I soon whipped Mr Cock out of my trousers and began to masturbate furiously. Unfortunately for me, my brother returned just at that moment, unheard by me. Perhaps the radio had drowned out the noise of him opening the front door?

“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” he boomed at me. “Wanking in my kitchen! What if the neighbours have seen? They might think it was me. Their new neighbour is a wanker indeed! Shit, I hope they haven’t seen you. You little sod! What are you wanking off to anyway?”

He snatched the rag from me. I blushed a deep red as the penny dropped.

“So, into spanking, are you?”

I thought it best to say nothing at that point. I mean, what could I say? My mind raced, and I remember a few smacked bottoms he’d given me when we were younger.

“I can see that you need a good hard spanking now, kid!”

“Don’t be daft,” I replied, “I’m twenty!”

“Shut up! Go to your room and wait for me.”

Reluctantly, I made my way up the stairs to the small bedroom I’d been sleeping in. The fresh magnolia paint gave the room a sunny air. The window was open to allow the paint smell to dissipate. I sat down on the bed, feeling for all the world like a guilty teenager. Soon my brother appeared, smiling a sinister smile. He unlaced his Green Flash trainers and slipped them off silently. The meaning was clear. He was going to beat me with them.

“Such depraved behaviour, kid! Demands punishment, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I agreed submissively.

“Better bare your bottom for me, then. It’s traditional, after all. Then bend over the bed.”

“Patrick, is all this really necessary?” I asked, in one last forlorn attempt to avoid a beating.

My humiliation was almost complete. He picked up one of his green and white tennis shoes and slapped it down hard on my naked arse. An almighty thundercrack seemed to accompany it and a wave of pain engrossed my body. Rapidly, a second, third and fourth stroke struck home. Already the pain was overwhelming me. If my brother was worried about the neighbours seeing me wanking, why wasn’t he worried about the noise from my spanking? Surely it was drifting out of the open window? I needn’t have worried though, as just then two expresses passed on the viaduct, drowning out the sounds of my beating.

“AAARGH!” I cried as further strokes lashed my naked behind. I was close to begging him to stop, but really I was so ashamed of my behaviour that I felt I really had to just grin and bear it. As further strikes hit me though, this became harder and I soon felt silent tears rolling down my face. Again and again he hit me, sometimes with the left tennis shoe, sometimes the right. My arse was aglow, bright red and throbbing. Certainly the beating had cured my urge to masturbate. Eventually it was over. Patrick slapped my arse gratuitously with his hand a couple of times as I staggered to my feet.

“Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet, kid,” my brother said. “This afternoon you and I will take the train into town where you will buy a cane, seeing as you have such an interest in them. You will pay for it and I will use it on you. Clear?”

I almost forgave my brother later as he cooked us the most sensational Italian lunch. However, my arse was sorer than sore as I sat on the hard wooden seat of the refectory-style table. As we enjoyed a cold ice cream dessert from the freezer I wondered whether it might not have been better used to cool my inflamed cheeks.

After lunch, Patrick dragged me off into town on the train. That was a bit of a treat in a way, but our eventual destination bore heavily on my mind. A place that sold canes? Surely there were no such places any more? Then I remembered I’d seen some pretty feeble-looking canes in a local sex shop. My brother grinned at me as we passed over some uneven points and I grimaced as my bottom was bounced around on the seating.

Eventually, we got to town and emerged from the station. Almost opposite was our destination, a rather old-fashioned looking shop. It specialised in umbrellas, hiking and walking sticks and “canes”! I followed Patrick in, the door causing a loud bell to sound as it was opened. I was immediately hit by a slightly musty smell as I surveyed the dingy surroundings. A wizened old gentleman appeared and offered us assistance.

“I’m looking for a punishment cane. Probably a senior model, preferably with a crook handle,” Patrick informed the man.

“Ah. Right, sir. Not much call for those these days, I’m afraid. Yes, a great shame. But we do keep a few in stock for connoisseurs and enthusiasts. Come and have a look.”

Patrick duly inspected a variety of canes, and I blushed every time he swished one through the air. The stock was rather more extensive than we’d been led to believe and my brother didn’t seem to be in a great hurry, unfortunately for me. Eventually, he selected a golden brown specimen, with a quite beautiful curved handle. It looked as if it was straight out of an ancient comic. Somehow I knew that it would be no laughing matter, however.

“The boy will pay for it!” Patrick announced. I duly scraped the necessary together, which was humiliating, but at least it gave me the chance to ask the assistant to wrap the cane for me. And so it was that we left the shop, with me carrying a lightweight package wrapped in brown parcel paper! On the train ride back, Patrick winked at me a couple of times. Was he enjoying my humiliation, or was he, as I was beginning to suspect, a bit of a spanko himself?

Back at the house, Patrick ordered me upstairs again, “And this time change into your pyjamas. You will be sent to bed after your caning!”

“But I don’t have any pyjamas with me!”

“What? No pyjamas? I suppose you sleep in the nude, do you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. Except when I’m at Mum and Dad’s.”

“I see. More lewd behaviour! Extra strokes for that, kid.”

I walked up the stairs with my tail between my legs. Well, not really as I don’t have a tail. And, even if I had, I felt that Patrick would have beaten it off in next to no time!

I was sat on the bed again when Patrick came in. He was taking the wrapping off the cane. It’s full majesty was soon revealed. He cut it through the air a couple of times. I really wasn’t looking forward to this. Although caning had been a major fantasy for me, I was pretty sure I didn’t want one in real life.

“I thought I told you to get ready for bed?” Patrick reminded me.

“But I told you, I sleep in the nude!”

“In that case you will be caned in your bed clothes, that’s to say stark bollock naked! See to it!”

Reluctantly, I stripped off. I could smell my sweat. If only his shower had been working.

“Right, bend over brother. Six for masturbating in my house, and four extra for sleeping nude in my house! And two more for a general lack of respect for me and my house! How many does that make?”

“Twelve, Patrick.”

“No! It makes twelve of the very best! Stick that bottom out more!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three shockingly hard strokes landed on my already tender arse. The sting of that cane was unbelievable.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! It was all too much. This time tears and snot fell down my face. I had hoped that the cane from that tired old shop would have been past it, but it was full of youthful vim and vigour. Shit!

“Oh please Patrick, no more! I’m sorry. Haven’t I done a good job for you here?”

My brother paused. Perhaps I had struck a chord?

“Well, Wayne…”

I was amazed. He’d used my first name! That was the first time for ages. Surely a good sign?

“You have done some really good work on the house and with helping me move in. Thank you. I shall of course reward you for that. However, your inappropriate behaviour does still need to be punished!”

He flexed the cane and slashed it down on my naked arse once more. It wasn’t quite such a harsh stroke, and neither were the other five that followed on. So maybe I had six of the very best and six close to the best? Anyway, I couldn’t help sobbing a little by the time he threw the cane down.

“That was fun!” he laughed.

I wanted to call him a bastard but I thought better of it. And then, he didn’t send me to bed after all. I think that was because he wanted me to do some more work on the house for him. I was glad to be standing up as I painted, for my bottom was way too sore to do anything requiring sitting down!

At the end of the stay, he did give me an envelope stuffed with cash. It certainly helped out over the following term, so I did feel grateful to him. Despite this, for a while I was reluctant to visit him again. I was wary of his punishments. However, eventually I had to admit to myself that it had all been very exciting, if a tad painful. So, I did spend a few weekends and holidays in his tender care! The cane and slipper were used a lot, but only because we both wanted it that way.

THEEND

D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest authorCharles Hamilton the Second. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

_________________

The ring tone of the phone played again. With trepidation Alan Hawkes glanced at the caller ID. He knew it would be his dad again. It was the third time in an hour.

He let the phone ring out. He knew he would have to face his dad sooner or later. But not just now. He wasn’t ready yet.

His dad must have seen the newspaper story. It had been in the local paper, but dad lived a hundred miles away. He probably saw it on-line. Someone must have shown it to him.

Alan Hawkes was twenty-four years old. He was a purchasing administrator for a national fast-food chain. He lived with his girlfriend. They had a child. They even had a mortgage. He was an independent adult. But, he would never be free of his dad.

The phone rang again. This time Alan answered it. Dad was mad. “Come home Saturday.” It was an order. One that must be obeyed.

As “crimes” went, Alan Hawkes’s was not big. He and some workmates had too much to drink and empty beer bottles were smashed in the street. The case at the magistrates’ court made the newspaper. A small fine; nothing much.

Saturday was a fine bright spring day. Alan Hawkes arrived at his “home” in the early afternoon. No matter how many years he would live in his own place, his parents’ house, where Alan and his two younger brothers were brought up, would always be called “home.”

He parked the car and walked up the path. He still had a door key and let himself in. His nineteen-year-old brother Jimmy came out of the kitchen to greet him. The smile that split Jimmy’s face was as good as a confession. It was he who had told dad.

“You’re for it now,” he crowed. “Dad’s mad as hell. It’s the woodshed.”

Jimmy knew that for certain. Only the previous Tuesday, he had himself been in the woodshed over dad’s knee; his jeans at his feet and his pants at the knees while the old man pounded his son’s bare buttocks with a heavy wooden utility brush. Jimmy and his pals had been out on the lash. With bladders full of beer and nowhere to relieve them they had urinated in a shop doorway. There were no police and no newspaper story. A neighbour passing by had spotted him and told his dad.

They called it the “woodshed,” but it wasn’t really. Theirs was a large suburban house. It had a big garden with a shed, but no woodshed. The “woodshed” was a small space in the basement, just off the utility room where they kept the washing machine and the chest freezer. There was a beat-up couch and a table and an old TV. It was more like dad’s “den.” This was where he would take his sons when they needed their backsides blistered.

Dad reckoned it was more private than the living room or the boy’s bedroom. The boys were never allowed in the den on their own. If they were spotted sneaking down the stairs to the basement, it could mean only one thing: a spanking was imminent.

Dad was a powerful man in his late forties. He owned his own building firm; he’d built it from scratch. He employed hundreds of men. He was the boss. He was used to getting his own way.

Dad and his twenty-four-year-old son stood in the den. Dad eyed his son from head to foot with undisguised disdain. Every square inch of Alan’s arms was covered with tattoos. There was another across most of his back that dad couldn’t see. Why did young people mutilate themselves like this, he wondered. Did they think it made them look attractive?

He wasn’t about to have an argument about “body art,” he had other business to attend to.

Alan stood, his eyes blazing as his dad ripped into him. He was determined he would not cry, but the tears were already forming.

“Irresponsible,” “immature,” “reckless,” were some of the words dad threw at his son. “You have a child of your own …” he let the sentence trail off. How could Alan ever think to discipline his own son if he couldn’t behave himself?

Alan watched passively as the colour of his father’s face moved through pink, to mauve, to purple. His old man was genuinely enraged; this was not an act.

“Why am I doing this?” Alan had wondered during the two-hour drive. Why was he travelling a hundred miles knowing that his dad would belt his backside for him when he arrived?

His dad had no control over him anymore. Alan didn’t live at home, his dad didn’t employ him in his business and he wasn’t obliged to him for anything.

All these things were true, but somewhere deep down in his soul in ways he couldn’t understand his dad was still his dad. He was the boss. When he told you to jump you replied, “How high?”

Both Alan and his dad knew how this confrontation would play out. Corporal punishment must be administered.

Satisfied that he had vented his spleen and there was no more to be said, dad strode from the woodshed into the adjoining utility room.

He returned seconds later. Alan’s mouth gaped open. “What the …”

Under his arm, dad held a long thin cane. It was like nothing Alan had seen before. It wasn’t a length of garden bamboo. It had a curved handle at one end and even in its current lifeless state, it looked extremely whippy.

“I got it on eBay,” dad said in response to the quizzical look from his son. “Especially,” he smirked.

He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it in front of his boy’s face. Alan’s eyes followed it as his dad made practice swishes. A “swoosh” echoed around the den every time it cut through the air.

“They used to use these in schools. Years ago,” his dad flexed the cane between two his hands.

Alan’s face paled. He had been spanked many times by dad, even as an adult. It always hurt like hell, but nothing he had experienced before would be as painful as this.

“Six-of-the-best they used to call it,” his dad continued. “But, since you are not a little boy, let’s call it twelve.”

He swiped the cane through the air to emphasise his point.

“Trousers, pants down. Bend over the couch.”

Alan’s eyes blazed. Twelve strokes with that cane. Bare arsed.

“B …” he started to mouth the words of protest, but held back. He mustn’t argue with his dad. The old man’s mind was made up. If Alan made a fuss, he would get extra strokes. That was for certain.

He took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. Events had to take their course.

Alan shuffled to the back of the couch. He pulled at the elasticated waist of his trousers sending them south. Then with the merest flick of his wrists the underpants followed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, rubbed the palms of his hands together, and then as if diving into an icy pond, he threw himself over the back of the couch.

He had been in this position before. Last time, just before Christmas, he had taken a couple of dozen whops from an old razor strop. It was a family heirloom. At least three generations of Hawkes men had had their bare backsides tattooed by it.

Alan straightened his legs and set his feet about twenty inches apart. He kept his head low into the dusty couch cushion and raised his bum as high as he could. Submissively, he waited for the first lash from dad’s new school cane.

Dad had never caned anyone before but he reckoned it wasn’t rocket science. He stood a little to his son’s left and tapped the cane across his buttocks to get an aim. Then, he moved the cane back and whipped it down hard.

Alan’s buttocks were far from firm. He was no athlete and he spent too many hours in the pub. Like so many of his generation, he was already in his mid-twenties running to fat. The cane struck home, sank into his wobbly bum and emerged a split-second later leaving behind a distinctive red mark.

Alan sucked in his breath. It had hurt, but not as much as he had feared.

Swipe number two sank lower across the buttocks. Again the flesh quivered and the cane submerged into the pink mounds. Another line appeared; this one a little deeper than the first. A welt slowly formed.

Alan opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, but he successfully suppressed any sound.

There was plenty of fat for dad to aim at. He went high with the third stoke, cutting across the top of the curves, just below the base of the back. His son gasped. That one was the most painful yet.

The next one he aimed low, almost across the crease where the bum and the thighs met. Alan yelped. His legs twisted at the knees and his hips swayed. “Huff, huff, huff,” he wheezed. Sweat was beginning to show under his shirt. His heart was racing.

Encouraged by the reaction to the previous stroke, dad laid three more in quick succession in the same area. Rat-tat-tat! It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the small den.

That had Alan roaring. His face rose from the dusty cushion and he shook his head violently from left to right. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

“Steady. Keep still.” It was a curt command from his dad and Alan knew better than to disobey the order. He gulped in draughts of air.

Thwip, thwip, thwip. Three more slashes cut into the jelly-like buttocks. The flesh shuddered under the impact as the cane struck the same spot over and over. A small trickle of blood weeped from the cut.

Alan was no stranger to corporal punishment, or to its pain, but this bare-arsed caning was the worst he had experienced. He stamped his feet on the floor, bounced his head up and down against the back of the couch and twisted his torso as waves of agony shot north-to-south and east-to-west through his entire body.

“Ssssssss.”

Dad swivelled on his heels. That hissing sound had not come from Alan, his son, prostrated across the couch in front of him.

He turned to see Jimmy, his face pale and his lips parted in astonishment.

“You!” dad roared at the nineteen-year-old. He knew immediately that he had sneaked into the basement to try to witness his brother’s humiliation.

“Stand there!” he shook his cane. “Face the wall! I’ll deal with you later!”

Sorrowfully, the teenager shuffled across the room and pressed his nose against the wall. Behind him he heard the almighty swish of the cane flying through the air, followed by a dull thud as it sank into jelly. His brother’s growl was husky; all the saliva had drained from his mouth. He hacked up a dry cough.

Swish! Crack! the cane flew and landed for the twelfth and final time. Dad paused to admire his handiwork. His aim had been true. Twelve distinct marks were burned across his son’s buttocks. Most ran in a perfect parallel one to the other. Blood was seeping from a particularly deep and wide welt. The bum was red raw and he was certain he had given Alan a thrashing he would not forget in a hurry.

Dad tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. He made an imposing sight.

“Get up and leave.”

Alan didn’t need telling twice. He pulled himself up from the couch, tugged up his trousers and pants in one movement and headed for the stairs.

Moments later he was hurrying down the street. At the time he found his parked car his brother Jimmy was loosening his trousers before bending over the couch to offer his bum for what would be the first encounter of many with dad’s new school cane.

_________)

More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this work of total fiction by your host Rod Cayenne. Strictly Over-18s only!

I’ve always had a funny relationship with my brother Patrick. He always called me “kid” which was guaranteed to piss me off big time. That and the fact that he was a good ten years older than me.

A few years back he purchased his first house. In a less than desirable suburb of the city, he really thought he had arrived. It was a Victorian terrace, with a big railway viaduct down the bottom of the garden. Being a bit of a gricer, I took pleasure in telling him that it was the line the nuclear waste trains ran along. That freaked him out briefly! His green credentials were seriously dented. Yes, we were siblings with the traditional rivalry. Even so, I was happy to help him move in and decorate as I was waiting to start a new term at University. I stayed for a few days.

Towards the end of my stay, I was enjoying a fine brew of tea and a crafty cigarette as my elevensies break. My brother had taken the train into town to sort out some things. I was a bit bored and tired as I gazed idly out of the kitchen window. I picked up the previous day’s evening paper and scanned through it as I puffed on my fag. Suddenly, I spat tea out of my gob with disbelief as I started to read an article about corporal punishment and the cane in particular. It was a hot piece alright, on a subject I’d always had an unhealthy interest in. In fact, it was so hot that I soon whipped Mr Cock out of my trousers and began to masturbate furiously. Unfortunately for me, my brother returned just at that moment, unheard by me. Perhaps the radio had drowned out the noise of him opening the front door?

“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” he boomed at me. “Wanking in my kitchen! What if the neighbours have seen? They might think it was me. Their new neighbour is a wanker indeed! Shit, I hope they haven’t seen you. You little sod! What are you wanking off to anyway?”

He snatched the rag from me. I blushed a deep red as the penny dropped.

“So, into spanking, are you?”

I thought it best to say nothing at that point. I mean, what could I say? My mind raced, and I remember a few smacked bottoms he’d given me when we were younger.

“I can see that you need a good hard spanking now, kid!”

“Don’t be daft,” I replied, “I’m twenty!”

“Shut up! Go to your room and wait for me.”

Reluctantly, I made my way up the stairs to the small bedroom I’d been sleeping in. The fresh magnolia paint gave the room a sunny air. The window was open to allow the paint smell to dissipate. I sat down on the bed, feeling for all the world like a guilty teenager. Soon my brother appeared, smiling a sinister smile. He unlaced his Green Flash trainers and slipped them off silently. The meaning was clear. He was going to beat me with them.

“Such depraved behaviour, kid! Demands punishment, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I agreed submissively.

“Better bare your bottom for me, then. It’s traditional, after all. Then bend over the bed.”

“Patrick, is all this really necessary?” I asked, in one last forlorn attempt to avoid a beating.

My humiliation was almost complete. He picked up one of his green and white tennis shoes and slapped it down hard on my naked arse. An almighty thundercrack seemed to accompany it and a wave of pain engrossed my body. Rapidly, a second, third and fourth stroke struck home. Already the pain was overwhelming me. If my brother was worried about the neighbours seeing me wanking, why wasn’t he worried about the noise from my spanking? Surely it was drifting out of the open window? I needn’t have worried though, as just then two expresses passed on the viaduct, drowning out the sounds of my beating.

“AAARGH!” I cried as further strokes lashed my naked behind. I was close to begging him to stop, but really I was so ashamed of my behaviour that I felt I really had to just grin and bear it. As further strikes hit me though, this became harder and I soon felt silent tears rolling down my face. Again and again he hit me, sometimes with the left tennis shoe, sometimes the right. My arse was aglow, bright red and throbbing. Certainly the beating had cured my urge to masturbate. Eventually it was over. Patrick slapped my arse gratuitously with his hand a couple of times as I staggered to my feet.

“Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet, kid,” my brother said. “This afternoon you and I will take the train into town where you will buy a cane, seeing as you have such an interest in them. You will pay for it and I will use it on you. Clear?”

I almost forgave my brother later as he cooked us the most sensational Italian lunch. However, my arse was sorer than sore as I sat on the hard wooden seat of the refectory-style table. As we enjoyed a cold ice cream dessert from the freezer I wondered whether it might not have been better used to cool my inflamed cheeks.

After lunch, Patrick dragged me off into town on the train. That was a bit of a treat in a way, but our eventual destination bore heavily on my mind. A place that sold canes? Surely there were no such places any more? Then I remembered I’d seen some pretty feeble-looking canes in a local sex shop. My brother grinned at me as we passed over some uneven points and I grimaced as my bottom was bounced around on the seating.

Eventually, we got to town and emerged from the station. Almost opposite was our destination, a rather old-fashioned looking shop. It specialised in umbrellas, hiking and walking sticks and “canes”! I followed Patrick in, the door causing a loud bell to sound as it was opened. I was immediately hit by a slightly musty smell as I surveyed the dingy surroundings. A wizened old gentleman appeared and offered us assistance.

“I’m looking for a punishment cane. Probably a senior model, preferably with a crook handle,” Patrick informed the man.

“Ah. Right, sir. Not much call for those these days, I’m afraid. Yes, a great shame. But we do keep a few in stock for connoisseurs and enthusiasts. Come and have a look.”

Patrick duly inspected a variety of canes, and I blushed every time he swished one through the air. The stock was rather more extensive than we’d been led to believe and my brother didn’t seem to be in a great hurry, unfortunately for me. Eventually, he selected a golden brown specimen, with a quite beautiful curved handle. It looked as if it was straight out of an ancient comic. Somehow I knew that it would be no laughing matter, however.

“The boy will pay for it!” Patrick announced. I duly scraped the necessary together, which was humiliating, but at least it gave me the chance to ask the assistant to wrap the cane for me. And so it was that we left the shop, with me carrying a lightweight package wrapped in brown parcel paper! On the train ride back, Patrick winked at me a couple of times. Was he enjoying my humiliation, or was he, as I was beginning to suspect, a bit of a spanko himself?

Back at the house, Patrick ordered me upstairs again, “And this time change into your pyjamas. You will be sent to bed after your caning!”

“But I don’t have any pyjamas with me!”

“What? No pyjamas? I suppose you sleep in the nude, do you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. Except when I’m at Mum and Dad’s.”

“I see. More lewd behaviour! Extra strokes for that, kid.”

I walked up the stairs with my tail between my legs. Well, not really as I don’t have a tail. And, even if I had, I felt that Patrick would have beaten it off in next to no time!

I was sat on the bed again when Patrick came in. He was taking the wrapping off the cane. It’s full majesty was soon revealed. He cut it through the air a couple of times. I really wasn’t looking forward to this. Although caning had been a major fantasy for me, I was pretty sure I didn’t want one in real life.

“I thought I told you to get ready for bed?” Patrick reminded me.

“But I told you, I sleep in the nude!”

“In that case you will be caned in your bed clothes, that’s to say stark bollock naked! See to it!”

Reluctantly, I stripped off. I could smell my sweat. If only his shower had been working.

“Right, bend over brother. Six for masturbating in my house, and four extra for sleeping nude in my house! And two more for a general lack of respect for me and my house! How many does that make?”

“Twelve, Patrick.”

“No! It makes twelve of the very best! Stick that bottom out more!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three shockingly hard strokes landed on my already tender arse. The sting of that cane was unbelievable.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! It was all too much. This time tears and snot fell down my face. I had hoped that the cane from that tired old shop would have been past it, but it was full of youthful vim and vigour. Shit!

“Oh please Patrick, no more! I’m sorry. Haven’t I done a good job for you here?”

My brother paused. Perhaps I had struck a chord?

“Well, Wayne…”

I was amazed. He’d used my first name! That was the first time for ages. Surely a good sign?

“You have done some really good work on the house and with helping me move in. Thank you. I shall of course reward you for that. However, your inappropriate behaviour does still need to be punished!”

He flexed the cane and slashed it down on my naked arse once more. It wasn’t quite such a harsh stroke, and neither were the other five that followed on. So maybe I had six of the very best and six close to the best? Anyway, I couldn’t help sobbing a little by the time he threw the cane down.

“That was fun!” he laughed.

I wanted to call him a bastard but I thought better of it. And then, he didn’t send me to bed after all. I think that was because he wanted me to do some more work on the house for him. I was glad to be standing up as I painted, for my bottom was way too sore to do anything requiring sitting down!

At the end of the stay, he did give me an envelope stuffed with cash. It certainly helped out over the following term, so I did feel grateful to him. Despite this, for a while I was reluctant to visit him again. I was wary of his punishments. However, eventually I had to admit to myself that it had all been very exciting, if a tad painful. So, I did spend a few weekends and holidays in his tender care! The cane and slipper were used a lot, but only because we both wanted it that way.

THEEND

D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

“What did you say?” Ritchie stared at his eldest brother in wide-eyed bewilderment.

“You heard. Bend over that settee; I’m going to cane your backside.” And to emphasise the point he wobbled the whippy rattan in front of the eighteen-year-old’s face.

What the … Where did that come from? Richie had never seen a school cane before, did people still make them? It was dark yellow and shiny; exactly like ones that schoolmasters had used on generations of unruly boys.

John swished the rod through the air a couple of times and then flexed it between both of his hands, menacingly. It was more than three-feet long and as thick as a pencil, but it was so supple he could make the business end almost touch the curved handle.

“You disgust me. Poor mum will be turning in her grave. Stealing from your boss.”

Ritchie averted his eyes from the cane and turned his attention to the carpet beneath his feet. John was right; he had been caught stealing magazines from the newsagent and general store where he worked.

“Stealing from nice Mr Weaver. What were you thinking?”

Ritchie was unsure if he was expected to answer, but shrugged his shoulders just in case.

“Bah!” His brother expelled air through clenched teeth. “I told Mr Weaver I would thrash the living daylights out of you if he didn’t call the police. Lucky for you he said yes.”

He swished the cane again.

“So, you bend over the settee and you take a caning. If you don’t, you’ll end up in the magistrates’ court. And, if that happens you can pack your bags and clear out. I’m not having a convicted thief living here.”

Ritchie knew his brother meant it too. He was in charge. His word was law. Ritchie and his two other brothers owed everything to John. He had kept the family together after his widowed mother had died suddenly five years ago. Ritchie was the youngest and the only one living at home now.

Swish, swish went the cane. John was certainly intimidating his kid brother.

Ritchie had no remorse. Not for Mr Weaver anyway. He had a rubbish job in a crappy shop. The wages were lousy; why shouldn’t he steal stuff? He’d been doing it for years, it was a wonder he hadn’t been caught sooner.

Swish, swish.

Ritchie knew he had no choice. It had to be a sore arse or he would lose his job and his home. A life in a cardboard box beckoned.

Swish, swish.

His brother’s impatience was showing. Ritchie stared at the young man. He was a bit of a star at the local gym and his bulging torso tapered to a slim, muscular waist. He could pack a punch in the boxing ring and Ritchie had no doubt he would land a cane with some energy.

“Come on buster. Bend over the settee. Let’s get on with it.”

Swish, swish.

Ritchie’s brain was resigned to the beating, but his body had other ideas. He could not get his feet to walk the four or five paces across the living room it would take to reach the settee. A caning? How painful would it be? Could he take it? Would he humiliate himself in front of his brother by howling the house down?

Ritchie’s thoughts were interrupted by John’s strong hand as it gripped the teenager’s arm and tugged him across the room, his feet scraping the carpet as he went. Then, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, John propelled his brother face down across the back of the settee.

Ritchie put up no struggle. He stared impassively at the dusty dark blue patterned ‘throw’ that covered the cushions.

John pulled the boy’s shirt out of his trousers, and then pulled them up snugly, ensuring a tightly presented seat.

“Head lower, feet further apart. Stick your bottom out more.” John knew exactly how he wanted his younger brother positioned so he could whack his cane into his proffered backside with maximum effect. For a twenty-two-year-old man in the year 2015, John had a surprising amount of knowledge in such matters.

John took up position a cane’s length to the left of his younger brother and then tapped the rod one… two… three… times on the same spot and watched captivated as the firm but fleshy bottom cheeks wobbled with eachtap.

The tension in the room was unbelievable. Ritchie’s buttocks clenched and unclenched involuntarily. He closed his eyes tight in anticipation of the searing agony about to come.

“Relax, it’s better if you relax,” John’s words were kind, but his younger brother was not in control of his backside and still the cheeks twitched.

John let a few seconds pass before he asked, “Ready?” There was a slight nod of Ritchie’s head, but it was enough. John laid the cane right across the centre of his brother’s rounded bottom then brought it up into the air. Ritchie flinched at the first touch of the rattan, knowing it to be only seconds away from causing him extreme pain.

Then John paused. Then there was the whistle as the cane swiped through the air and bit deep into stretched trousers. Ritchie released his breath with a “harrr.” It wasn’t a cry, just a sound. The teenager winced and his buttocks squirmed as it absorbed the first fiery stripe.

For a second time the cane was curled across the crown of Ritchie’s buttocks, which rose up simultaneously in angry response. A long cry of dismay erupted through the boy’s throat, and his legs tangled with each other as he tried to kill the burning pain which was taking over this entire backside.

John progressed slowly down his kid brother’s buttocks, making sure that each lash was delivered lower than the previous one. He knew exactly how long to wait between strokes to cause the maximum sting.

There were three or four loud intakes of breath that became sobs and Ritchie’s whole body shivered in shock. The pain raged through his backside. He longed to leap up, clasp his bum and run out of the room. By lash number six he was yelping and frantically writhing and twisting. He began to move his hand back towards his scorching bottom then thought better of it. Some long-dormant schoolboy instinct told him that if he obstructed his brother’s progress he would get extra strokes.

Instead, he gripped firmly onto the cushion of the settee, screwed up his eyes tightly and waited for the next agonising cut.

John stared impassively at his brother’s prostrate body. He felt the sense of power he had over his brother. He had delivered six-of-the-best strokes across Ritchie’s stretched buttocks. The teenager was quietly sobbing into the cushion of the settee. He seemed contrite. But, his crime had been serious. He had brought disgrace to the whole family and not only to himself. The punishment had to be exemplary. The boy must never be tempted to steal again. A thrashing of the utmost severity must be delivered.

He took up his position once more, found his aim, raised the cane high and like he was hitting a tennis ball he brought it crashing down with force across the very centre of Ritchie’s buttocks. He yelled. It was a lusty cry and the boy’s sobs became great gulps. The cane rose again and John aimed it at an imaginary spot five or six inches beneath the surface of his brother’s backside. The cane lashed through the soft and now very sore buttocks and bit deep into the flesh.

Ritchie released a blood-curdling scream, his feet drummed up and down on the carpet as if he were a soldier on sentry duty. The boy’s face was deep puce and tears flowed freely down his face. Huge sweat patches had formed under his armpits and the hair on his head was so wet it looked like he had just stepped out of a shower.

John was sweating buckets too. His breathing was heavy and his heart pounded with his exertions. He was a fit young man, but rarely, even on the hardest machine at the gym, had he felt such physical strain.

Whop! Whop! Whop! He landed three scorchers one after another. His aim was perfect and they all landed within a centimetre of one another. Blood must surely be seeping from wounds beneath his brother’s tight trousers and snug cotton underpants.

Ritchie buried his head in his hands and held on grimly.

Two more strokes to go. John had a plan, he knew how excruciatingly painful it would be to land the final cuts diagonally across the boy’s arse. That way they would cut across the existing welts reigniting the pain. The result would be an unendurable agony.

He moved position slightly and whipped the cane down. Ritchie’s yell would not have shamed a banshee. “No!!!!!”

He did not scream for mercy. That was as well, since John would show his brother none. The final lash struck making a second diagonal so that the wretched boy’s buttocks now had a perfect X across them.

It was over. There was the slightest rattling sound as John laid the cane down on the dining room table. His brother’s yells had subsided to loud gulps as the poor lad tried desperately to suck air into his lungs. The agony in his arse had travelled north, south, east and west across his whole body, but now it was subsiding into a glowing throb.

“Get up, it’s over.” John could barely get the words out; his own metabolism was severely disturbed.

Unsteadily, Ritchie hauled himself up. Quickly, he grabbed hold of the settee as he realised he did not have the strength to stand on his own two feet. Tears and snot covered his face and his shoulders heaved as more sobs evacuated his body.

John wanted to get this over with. “If you cause this family shame again, I’ll flog you on your bare buttocks. Now go to your room.”

Ritchie did not need telling twice. Holding on to the wall for support he eased his way up the stairs, crashed open the door of his room and dived onto his bed, burying his sobs into the pillow.

John meandered into the kitchen, picked up a coffee mug and filled it from the cold water tap. He stared through the window as he took great gulps, thinking: Oh, mum I miss you so very much.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

♥ Site recommended story ♥Hot spanking fiction by new special guest author 11plus – strictly over 18s only!

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It had been quite a day at the Sixth Form. All those sexy bodies had teased me into a lust-filled frenzy. Now that I was home, I was turned on like never before. Faster and faster, and ever more franticly, I wanked at my cock. I grunted and groaned and sighed. I was edging ever closer to a real corker of an orgasm. I loved doing it there, sat on the pristine white toilet seat. Suddenly, there was a loud rapping on the bathroom door.

“Hey! What’s going on in there? Gerald! Hurry up, I need the bog!”

Shit! It was my brother, Dan. He was home early and I hadn’t heard him arriving. Just a few years older than me, hunky and bearded, he had been tasked with looking after me while our dad was on tour overseas.

“Hurry up, hurry up! I need to dump!” he shouted.

“OK, OK, just coming!” I replied, quickly composing myself, flushing the toilet, shoving my cock back into my trunks, pulling up my jeans, and zipping myself back into decency. Only my belt remained undone, to save time. “Sorry!” I said as I emerged from the smallest room.

“We’ll talk in a minute! Right now, I’m busy!”

He barged me out of the way, slammed the door and locked it. I could sense that he knew what I’d been doing in there. No doubt my blushed facial features and slightly confused air would have confirmed it to him. Still and all, at least I had warmed the seat for him, a tender mercy on a bitterly cold day like that day.

While he was busy, I laid on my bed. I was worried that I had been rumbled. I did up my belt, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t have to undo it again very soon.

A long while later he emerged, followed by the manly smell of at least one big log sent downstream. The muscled hunk headed off for his bedroom, leaving me to wonder if there would be repercussions from my selfish occupancy of the bathroom. I didn’t have to wonder for long though, as he soon appeared at my door with dad’s cane in his hand.

“Oh Dan! Not the cane again!”

“Yes, the cane again,” he said sternly, rolling up his sleeves, exhibiting his finely muscled arms. “You never learn, do you? I’ve told you before about wanking in the bathroom. It’s strictly verboten. That’s why I put this bolt on your bedroom door, so you could do it in here in peace.”

“Yeah, I know. I told you I’m really grateful for that. Let me off please, I was just in the bathroom when the urge took me over. Surely you remember what it’s like to be eighteen? At least I warmed the seat for you.”

“And I’m going to return the favour by warming your seat for you!”

“Oh Dan!”

“I think, as you keep disobeying me, ten strokes would be appropriate.”

“Ten? Ten? No, you can’t! Dad said never more than six strokes.”

“That was before you were eighteen. I don’t think he’d object if he found out what you’d been doing in his bathroom. In fact, maybe I’ll call him now.”

“No, no, don’t do that! Please. Please. Alright, ten it is. You can do it on the bare.”

“I know I can, so hurry up and get your pants down, and get over the bed!”

I scrambled onto the bed, and hitched my jeans and underwear down for him. It was most undignified. The icy blast of the cold winter air left me in no doubt that my bare bottom was being offered to him for suitable chastisement once again.

“Ten then, Gerald. Try to keep the noise down. Coming now.”

The first stroke is, in many ways, always the worst. It’s always such a shock to the system. My calm, only mildly excited state of mind was immediately jolted into a firestorm of hellish pain. Shit, shit, shit! I knew he would be admiring the cane’s signature red stripe, and probably my hairy arsehole, cock and balls too. Such are the perils of having an older brother. Yes, a brother some seven years older, and schooled in the use of the cane by my father.

The second stroke cut down on to my tender flesh. The burn and sting spread rapidly, mating with the pain of the first stroke. It was all I could do to keep from crying out. Dan had asked me to keep the noise down, but I felt sure he would break me. The most I’d ever had off Dad had been eight strokes, but my brother was promising me more. I was hoping against hope that it was one promise he wouldn’t keep.

The third stroke whipped down viciously. Indeed, it felt more like a whip than a cane to me, but that was probably my imagination running riot. Anyway, running riot seemed to be what Dan was doing with that damned cane! He slashed it down again and again.

The sixth stroke brought new misery. It hurt really badly, but the worst thing about it was my awareness that this was where a normal caning would have finished. I fidgeted nervously. Dan placed his hand on my lower back, pushing me back into position gently.

“Just four more, brother. You can take them. You’re doing really well.”

He seemed to be trying to be nice to me, which was a fairly ridiculous notion, as he had the wicked cane to hand. Anyway, I didn’t like him speaking to me like that at all. In fact, I felt well and truly patronised. The seventh stroke was a real killer, causing me to slump down on the bed with a loud howl of pain. Right on cue, Dan cackled with undisguised delight. What a bastard!

“Get back up! I spoke too soon, didn’t I Gerald?”

“Sheesh, yes you did! Do you have to do it so hard?”

Dan cackled again as he lashed the cane down again, saying, “There’s your answer!”

The bastard hurt me really badly and he knew it. He cracked the final two strokes down much more quickly. I wasn’t sure whether that was a mercy or sheer sadism. My arse was criss-crossed with fire from the rattan cane. I sobbed quietly and slumped down again. I wanted him to go. I hoped he wouldn’t say anything else, but of course, that was a hope in vain.

“That’s your lot. Don’t do it again or it will be at least a dozen. I expect you want to finish off now, don’t you? This time, try to remember to bolt the door.”

I was so, so ashamed. He could read me like a book. Of course I would want to climax! I had been so close before, but he had interrupted me. I’d leave it a few minutes, though. My red raw arse was in serious need of some massage before I could move my attention round to the front. That had been one hell of a caning, but I was now beginning to enjoy the afterglow as I laid tummy down on my single bed.

Later on as I masturbated, I forgot about my school friends and instead thought about my brother caning me. I fantasised that he also kissed me long and hard. I imagined my face becoming sore from prolonged contact with his bristly beard. Then I imagined him caning me hard once again. I pictured his muscled arms and the cane gripped tightly in his large right hand. I wondered when he had last been caned. I wondered whether he had enjoyed it. I felt sure that he enjoyed caning me. After all, it seemed to happen every week or so. I wondered to myself why it seemed as if I enjoyed being caned. Did I want more? Did I want it harder? My cock was rock hard and seemed thicker than ever before. I was peaking and I came noisily. Thick spurts of hot white cum splashed onto my chest and my bed. Then I remembered that I hadn’t bolted the bedroom door! Oh no!

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A work of total fiction by Rod Cayenne. Strictly Over-18s only!

I’ve always had a funny relationship with my brother Patrick. He always called me “kid” which was guaranteed to piss me off big time. That and the fact that he was a good ten years older than me.

A few years back he purchased his first house. In a less than desirable suburb of the city, he really thought he had arrived. It was a Victorian terrace, with a big railway viaduct down the bottom of the garden. Being a bit of a gricer, I took pleasure in telling him that it was the line the nuclear waste trains ran along. That freaked him out briefly! His green credentials were seriously dented. Yes, we were siblings with the traditional rivalry. Even so, I was happy to help him move in and decorate as I was waiting to start a new term at University. I stayed for a few days.

Towards the end of my stay, I was enjoying a fine brew of tea and a crafty cigarette as my elevensies break. My brother had taken the train into town to sort out some things. I was a bit bored and tired as I gazed idly out of the kitchen window. I picked up the previous day’s evening paper and scanned through it as I puffed on my fag. Suddenly, I spat tea out of my gob with disbelief as I started to read an article about corporal punishment and the cane in particular. It was a hot piece alright, on a subject I’d always had an unhealthy interest in. In fact, it was so hot that I soon whipped Mr Cock out of my trousers and began to masturbate furiously. Unfortunately for me, my brother returned just at that moment, unheard by me. Perhaps the radio had drowned out the noise of him opening the front door?

“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” he boomed at me. “Wanking in my kitchen! What if the neighbours have seen? They might think it was me. Their new neighbour is a wanker indeed! Shit, I hope they haven’t seen you. You little sod! What are you wanking off to anyway?”

He snatched the rag from me. I blushed a deep red as the penny dropped.

“So, into spanking, are you?”

I thought it best to say nothing at that point. I mean, what could I say? My mind raced, and I remember a few smacked bottoms he’d given me when we were younger.

“I can see that you need a good hard spanking now, kid!”

“Don’t be daft,” I replied, “I’m twenty!”

“Shut up! Go to your room and wait for me.”

Reluctantly, I made my way up the stairs to the small bedroom I’d been sleeping in. The fresh magnolia paint gave the room a sunny air. The window was open to allow the paint smell to dissipate. I sat down on the bed, feeling for all the world like a guilty teenager. Soon my brother appeared, smiling a sinister smile. He unlaced his Green Flash trainers and slipped them off silently. The meaning was clear. He was going to beat me with them.

“Such depraved behaviour, kid! Demands punishment, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I agreed submissively.

“Better bare your bottom for me, then. It’s traditional, after all. Then bend over the bed.”

“Patrick, is all this really necessary?” I asked, in one last forlorn attempt to avoid a beating.

My humiliation was almost complete. He picked up one of his green and white tennis shoes and slapped it down hard on my naked arse. An almighty thundercrack seemed to accompany it and a wave of pain engrossed my body. Rapidly, a second, third and fourth stroke struck home. Already the pain was overwhelming me. If my brother was worried about the neighbours seeing me wanking, why wasn’t he worried about the noise from my spanking? Surely it was drifting out of the open window? I needn’t have worried though, as just then two expresses passed on the viaduct, drowning out the sounds of my beating.

“AAARGH!” I cried as further strokes lashed my naked behind. I was close to begging him to stop, but really I was so ashamed of my behaviour that I felt I really had to just grin and bear it. As further strikes hit me though, this became harder and I soon felt silent tears rolling down my face. Again and again he hit me, sometimes with the left tennis shoe, sometimes the right. My arse was aglow, bright red and throbbing. Certainly the beating had cured my urge to masturbate. Eventually it was over. Patrick slapped my arse gratuitously with his hand a couple of times as I staggered to my feet.

“Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet, kid,” my brother said. “This afternoon you and I will take the train into town where you will buy a cane, seeing as you have such an interest in them. You will pay for it and I will use it on you. Clear?”

I almost forgave my brother later as he cooked us the most sensational Italian lunch. However, my arse was sorer than sore as I sat on the hard wooden seat of the refectory-style table. As we enjoyed a cold ice cream dessert from the freezer I wondered whether it might not have been better used to cool my inflamed cheeks.

After lunch, Patrick dragged me off into town on the train. That was a bit of a treat in a way, but our eventual destination bore heavily on my mind. A place that sold canes? Surely there were no such places any more? Then I remembered I’d seen some pretty feeble-looking canes in a local sex shop. My brother grinned at me as we passed over some uneven points and I grimaced as my bottom was bounced around on the seating.

Eventually, we got to town and emerged from the station. Almost opposite was our destination, a rather old-fashioned looking shop. It specialised in umbrellas, hiking and walking sticks and “canes”! I followed Patrick in, the door causing a loud bell to sound as it was opened. I was immediately hit by a slightly musty smell as I surveyed the dingy surroundings. A wizened old gentleman appeared and offered us assistance.

“I’m looking for a punishment cane. Probably a senior model, preferably with a crook handle,” Patrick informed the man.

“Ah. Right, sir. Not much call for those these days, I’m afraid. Yes, a great shame. But we do keep a few in stock for connoisseurs and enthusiasts. Come and have a look.”

Patrick duly inspected a variety of canes, and I blushed every time he swished one through the air. The stock was rather more extensive than we’d been led to believe and my brother didn’t seem to be in a great hurry, unfortunately for me. Eventually, he selected a golden brown specimen, with a quite beautiful curved handle. It looked as if it was straight out of an ancient comic. Somehow I knew that it would be no laughing matter, however.

“The boy will pay for it!” Patrick announced. I duly scraped the necessary together, which was humiliating, but at least it gave me the chance to ask the assistant to wrap the cane for me. And so it was that we left the shop, with me carrying a lightweight package wrapped in brown parcel paper! On the train ride back, Patrick winked at me a couple of times. Was he enjoying my humiliation, or was he, as I was beginning to suspect, a bit of a spanko himself?

Back at the house, Patrick ordered me upstairs again, “And this time change into your pyjamas. You will be sent to bed after your caning!”

“But I don’t have any pyjamas with me!”

“What? No pyjamas? I suppose you sleep in the nude, do you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. Except when I’m at Mum and Dad’s.”

“I see. More lewd behaviour! Extra strokes for that, kid.”

I walked up the stairs with my tail between my legs. Well, not really as I don’t have a tail. And, even if I had, I felt that Patrick would have beaten it off in next to no time!

I was sat on the bed again when Patrick came in. He was taking the wrapping off the cane. It’s full majesty was soon revealed. He cut it through the air a couple of times. I really wasn’t looking forward to this. Although caning had been a major fantasy for me, I was pretty sure I didn’t want one in real life.

“I thought I told you to get ready for bed?” Patrick reminded me.

“But I told you, I sleep in the nude!”

“In that case you will be caned in your bed clothes, that’s to say stark bollock naked! See to it!”

Reluctantly, I stripped off. I could smell my sweat. If only his shower had been working.

“Right, bend over brother. Six for masturbating in my house, and four extra for sleeping nude in my house! And two more for a general lack of respect for me and my house! How many does that make?”

“Twelve, Patrick.”

“No! It makes twelve of the very best! Stick that bottom out more!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three shockingly hard strokes landed on my already tender arse. The sting of that cane was unbelievable.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! It was all too much. This time tears and snot fell down my face. I had hoped that the cane from that tired old shop would have been past it, but it was full of youthful vim and vigour. Shit!

“Oh please Patrick, no more! I’m sorry. Haven’t I done a good job for you here?”

My brother paused. Perhaps I had struck a chord?

“Well, Wayne…”

I was amazed. He’d used my first name! That was the first time for ages. Surely a good sign?

“You have done some really good work on the house and with helping me move in. Thank you. I shall of course reward you for that. However, your inappropriate behaviour does still need to be punished!”

He flexed the cane and slashed it down on my naked arse once more. It wasn’t quite such a harsh stroke, and neither were the other five that followed on. So maybe I had six of the very best and six close to the best? Anyway, I couldn’t help sobbing a little by the time he threw the cane down.

“That was fun!” he laughed.

I wanted to call him a bastard but I thought better of it. And then, he didn’t send me to bed after all. I think that was because he wanted me to do some more work on the house for him. I was glad to be standing up as I painted, for my bottom was way too sore to do anything requiring sitting down!

At the end of the stay, he did give me an envelope stuffed with cash. It certainly helped out over the following term, so I did feel grateful to him. Despite this, for a while I was reluctant to visit him again. I was wary of his punishments. However, eventually I had to admit to myself that it had all been very exciting, if a tad painful. So, I did spend a few weekends and holidays in his tender care! The cane and slipper were used a lot, but only because we both wanted it that way.

THEEND

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Erotic fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne

It’s funny how families grow apart. I had always lived near my kid brother Evan, but we didn’t see much of each other. We used to be close, but with the passage of years we had drifted apart. Then something happened which brought us closer again…

That particular day, I’d decided to visit him, for the first time in ages. I wasn’t sure how I’d be received, but he was really pleased to see me. I sat down on his plush sofa as he brought the coffee in. He came and sat right next to me, which was unusual. Normally, he’d have sat opposite while we chatted. I didn’t think too much of it to start with as we made small talk. Then, suddenly, he put his hand on my knee and said to me, “There’s something I need to tell you. I’m gay.”

Well, I was a little surprised, but it might have explained why neither of his marriages worked out. I laughed a little, perhaps nervously. Then I wagged my finger at him, saying, “Dirty boy!”

“Yes, that’s me, a dirty old boy!” he laughed.

I reassured him, “Don’t worry bruv, it’s cool, I’m quite kink-friendly. I’ll support you in any way I can.”

We hugged a bit. And then a bit more.

“Kink-friendly, eh?” Evan asked.

“Yes, well, you know!” I replied.

“No, I’m not sure I do,” he pressed.

By this time I was getting a bit annoyed with him. “Yes, we all have our little kinks and fetishes, don’t we? Well your kink is your gayness, mine is something else. Have you got a boyfriend then?”

My ruse to change the tack of the conversation didn’t work, as he said, “Never mind all that, what about your kink?”

“I told you, I don’t want to discuss it.”

“But I told you my secret.”

“Well, you’re not going to find out mine! I’m going to leave if you carry on.” I got up to leave.

“Eh? Errr. Yes, alright, but how did you know?”

“I like it too. So really it wasn’t hard to guess. It’s a bit of a shared interest then! Let me show you some of my toys,” he laughed.

Soon Evan reappeared in the room with a selection of straps, canes and crops.

“Gosh, they look severe. I’m more of a hand spanking type myself, really,” I explained.

“Don’t lie to me bruv. I can tell.” Well, of course, he was right. He knew me far better than I thought he could.

“OK, OK. Let me see them, Evan. Tell me about them.”

“Right! That’s more like it! Alright, first up is this riding crop. Not very severe. It’s a genuine equestrian item, bought from the tack shop down the Boulevard.”

“Really? I always found that place a bit intimidating. Never went in.”

“Oh, I know what you mean. It’s a bit seedy and run down. Chris, the owner, is gay too. We’ve had a few spanking sessions together.”

“Get away!”

“No, it’s true! I’ll have to introduce you. Watch out though, he gives it hard!”

“I like to dish it out.”

“Don’t lie to me Jack. You’re a sub!”

“No, really, I like a bit of both.”

“Hmm, I’m not convinced! I’ll give you the chance to prove it later.”

“No thanks, Evan!”

“Shut up Jack, now look at this.”

“Wicked cane, bruv.”

“I’ll say. It’s just like old Mr Smith’s one!”

“Don’t talk to me about that bastard! My arse will never forget him.”

“I always found him to be very fair. Strict, but fair.”

“He had it in for me, I’m sure.”

“Mmmm maybe. He let me off twice, a nice bloke, I always thought.”

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree about him, bruv. Maybe he let you off because he was gay too.”

“OK, but maybe we could play Mr Smith and pupil in a minute.”

“You’re not suggesting…”

“I am!”

“Well, I don’t know. Sounds a bit gay. It could be fun, I suppose. What else have you got?”

“A rubber spanking strap. Nice wooden handle. Rather severe.”

“Where did that come from?”

“Mail order from a company in Lancashire. I don’t think they’re trading any more. A pity, as their service was exceptional.”

“Is that a martinet?”

“Oui, mon frère!”

“I’ll have to try that!”

“Yes, you will. It’s a strange sensation, you need a few strokes to get the full effect!”

“And another cane?”

“Yes, this one has a straight grip, rather than the crook handle. Much the same as the Mr Smith one, otherwise.”

“And another cane? You must really like caning!”

He talked me through the rest of the collection, picked up the Smith cane and said to me, “Let’s play!”

“Errr yes. Mr Smith, Sir! You wanted to see me?” Suddenly and effortlessly I slipped into the role of naughty schoolboy.

“Ah yes! Davies, Senior, isn’ t it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, young Jack. I’ve had some very disappointing reports about you. Slacking, laziness, surliness, and to top it all, I hear you were masturbating in the gym changing room!”

“Oh yes, Sir. I don’t know what came over me. Please forgive me.”

“I will forgive you Davies, but you will not escape punishment. Why can’t you be a good boy like your younger brother? What’s his name?”

“Evan, Sir.”

“Ah yes, Evan. A good lad. Only occasionally naughty. I did let him off the cane the other day.”

“You did Sir?”

“Yes I did. You see, I’m not a beast or ogre. However, Jack I feel you do need pulling up. A good thrashing is just what you need to smarten up your ideas, to knock you into shape.”

“Oh, Sir!”

“Yes, my considered opinion is that nothing short of six of the best with my favourite cane is required in your case!”

“Oh, Sir!”

“Yes, six of the very best!”

“Sir.”

“Bare bottom, I’m afraid Davies!”

I scowled at my brother, wanting to break the role play. He just held his finger to his lips to tell me to be silent. He also gave me a sly wink. It was enough to encourage me to trust him and continue the play. Unfortunately by this time I was getting a huge stiff erection. A bare bottom caning would reveal all!

“Yes, Sir!”

“Well get your trousers and pants down, lad! I haven’t got all day!”

He was preparing a dining chair for me to drape myself over. I took my trousers and briefs off, revealing my proud and shameless erection to him. The words “Sorry, Sir,” slipped out.

“Yes, you will be Davies. I see you have an erection! I’ll see if I can get rid of that for you. Not many erections last after a stroke or two of my cane on the boy’s bottom. Bend right over the chair for me.”

I duly did this, with my cock uncomfortably in the way. I sighed and wondered what on earth I had let myself in for. My younger brother was a fine actor, playing the role to perfection, but would he be able to deliver? To give me the bitter sweet caress of the cane that I craved so often? I decided it would be fun if I hammed it up a bit for the sake of the scene.

SWISH-CRACK! My brother slashed the cane down on my bare arse.

“Ouch! Oh Sir!” I cried. In truth, it hurt a great deal, although not as much as I made out.

SWISH-CRACK!

“OWWW!” I cried, this time somewhat more earnestly.

SWISH-CRACK!

“ARGH!” I cried again, by this time aware that my penis was behaving itself rather better.

“Last one boy! Take it like a man!”

SWISH-CRAAAACK!

“Want to swop then?” Evan asked. So we did, he became the naughty boy, and I was Mr Smith. Only Mr Smith would have kept his trousers on. I chose not to dress, to allow my sore bottom some air. It also allowed my cock the freedom it deserved. I picked up the cane, enthusiastically.

I decided to continue the role playing along similar lines and did my best Mr Smith imitation, “Ah, Davies Junior, isn’t it? Why have you been sent here lad?”

He gasped. This time it was my turn to hold my finger to my lips in a request for silence. The game continued. I pointed to the chair with the cane.

“Over here, Sir?” Evan asked.

“Oh Sir!”

“Unless you want me to do it for you?”

“Sorry, Sir. No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll do it right now, Sir!” Evan revealed his masculine backside to me. It was plump, generous and inviting. It was the kind of bottom that was made for punishment. For remorse. For contrition. For the cane. Forever.

“Six of the very best is mandatory for smoking, as you know Davies. Plus two extra for your most unsporting disloyalty to your brother. I make that eight good hard strokes. Unless there’s anything else you wish to confess to?”

“Well Sir. No, I don’t think so. Although I have been masturbating rather a lot lately!”

“Very good, that’s more like it. A bit of honesty from you. Of course, I can’t excuse your self abuse. If I recall correctly, that is also a six stroke offence! Very well, fourteen strokes for you lad!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I lashed the cane down on my brother’s naked bottom. Disappointingly, he was taking it in his stride. Perhaps his boyfriend or boyfriends caned him regularly?

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Six strokes had been delivered without so much as a murmur from my brother. I was starting to get annoyed. Just like that bastard Mr Smith would have done.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Was he dead? No, a little wriggle displayed signs of life after all!

CRACK! The tenth one was met with a loud goan. At last I was getting somewhere! I wanted to break my brother’s will. I wanted to hurt him.

CRACK! The eleventh one, accompanied by a distressed yelp. I was feeling guilty, suddenly. I didn’t want to hurt him.

CRACK! The twelfth, and I had eased off. I allowed myself a short study break. I studied the beautiful, sore, throbbing red lines decorating his backside. I was in some kind of sadist’s heaven.

“Last two,” I advised him. “For disloyalty. Whatever would your brother have said? Well, lad? These will be extra hard.”

CRACK! Unlucky thirteen whipped into his flesh with renewed vigour.

“ARRRGH!” he cried, which I found gratifying. And horny.

“Last one! Enjoy!” I smirked as I slashed the cane down as hard as I could manage

“OWWWWW!” Evan exclaimed, jumping up from the chair, clutching his sore, obedient bottom.

We stared at each other with a love only brothers can share. I smiled and he picked up the martinet. A long evening lay ahead.

__________________

It felt a bit weird waking up with him lying naked next to me. Our lives had taken an interesting and unexpected turn. We spent a lot of time together from then on, and I got to know his bedroom very, very well.

(________________

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Warning – Over 18s Only!

Warning: Contains adult material. Forbidden to those under the age of 18.

This blog is intended for adults only. All listed sites, pictures displayed or referred to in this blog feature consenting adult models and players over the age of 18. All stories and artwork featured are fiction only and refer to adults in role play. This blog is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.

Important Note:
The owner of this blog does NOT condone, promote OR encourage the corporal punishment of minors or non-consenting adults.

The Cane

Many people use the rattan cane in their adult relationships. Sometimes this is for domestic discipline. Others use it to spice up their sex lives. Some just like recreating experiences from long ago. You will find fictional stories here which explore these themes. All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Disclaimer

All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Thought for the moment

"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey" - Kenji Miyazawa, author and poet (1896-1933)

Thought for another moment

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what" - Harper Lee, author (1926-2016)

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Dedicated to Jonathan

This site is dedicated to the memory of Jonathan (aka jaybee300), friend, muse, gentleman and master, 1954-2014, R.I.P.